


Night of the Pernicious Poisoner

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Gen, M/M, POV First Person, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formal dress parties were, and still are, a little slice of heaven with a dash of hell on top. I couldn't remember the last time I went to one while not on duty, and I'm just as hard pressed to remember the last one that went off without some trouble occurring.  It takes a particular level of skill to smile, and seem relaxed while neatly cataloguing every face in the room, looking for stray gestures, people who seem inordinately nervous. A glass of wine in one hand, a pistol in the other -- I couldn't imagine living any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of the Pernicious Poisoner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuffwelike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffwelike/gifts).



The rattling noise had been chewing on my nerves for what felt like hours. It was a constant clink clink clink of glass, like someone had coated a gelding with those damn glass vials Artemus had. I wished it had've been a damned horse; at least the horse would've eventually wandered off. My partner's desk was sadly not going to wander off any time soon, no matter how hard I wished for it. Now, that didn't usually irk me, but he had his jars and flasks out of the lined case he usually kept them in, and they were rattle rattle rattling around inside the open desk drawer. The noise was just loud enough to drift from the back of my mind to the fore of it, while I tried valiantly to dress.

Formal dress parties were, and still are, a little slice of heaven with a dash of hell on top. I couldn't remember the last time I went to one while not on duty, and I'm just as hard pressed to remember the last one that went off without some trouble occurring. It takes a particular level of skill to smile, and seem relaxed while neatly cataloguing every face in the room, looking for stray gestures, people who seem inordinately nervous. A glass of wine in one hand, a pistol in the other -- I couldn't imagine living any other way. I think Artie particularly savors the damn things, and particularly enjoys the stress (and exhilaration) of guarding the president. It hasn't mattered which one -- from Grant, right on to the current Arthur administration. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. And if I end up ahead of myself, then we've all just missed right out on the story. And then I might as well put this pen down. I don't know how Artie does it, but my hand already feels cramped. Now, back to then. 

Artemus savored the most damn stressful parties. Pacing the cars, checking this, that, making sure his gun was clean, my gun was clean, seeing if there were any of his other gadgets that might be usable. It was damn disturbing when I was trying to make sure my clothes would meet uniform standards. Since we were going to stand at the president's side, it was of course expected of us to look like the sterling, polished agents we were. Never mind the nickel-sized, piecemeal patch at the toe of my favorite pair of boots. There just hadn't been time to outfit the new ones with the equipment I needed. I wasn't going to stand guard over the president in any state other than prepared.

Artie burst into the room in a flurry of coat, tails, and motion, slammed his desk drawer closed -- it only amplified the noise, but the Wanderer stopped soon -- and then tried to flatten his hair, staring in the mirror. He flashed himself what I consider a patent Artemus smile, and then his reflection asked me, "Jim, have you seen my gloves?"

He's had an absentminded streak since the first day I met him. I never have figured out if it's a *true* inability to recall 'little' things, or if he honestly has so many thoughts in his head that he can't keep track of everything. Then there's always the possibility of his streak of wicked humor being the cause of it -- I've never seen him set off one of his own traps by accident, but I'd run out of fingers if I tried to show you on my hands how many times I've set something off, only to get the "Jim, don't touch that" warning seconds before whatever it was went off.

"They're beside the telegraph, Artie." He'd tossed them there earlier in the day, after he'd finished picking shreds of sawdust off of them, remnants from the last fiasco he'd worn them to. I should've dubbed them his unlucky gloves then and there.

He didn't take well to the tone I told him that in -- it was a little patronizing, but I wasn't required to keep track of where he tossed things. So I wasn't too surprised when he sighed, and then mimicked me dead on. "They're beside the telegraph-- oh, blast, I didn't show you what I wrote down, did I? You were so busy brushing down the horses..." He burst back to the parlor car, and the energy of his motion pulled me almost unwittingly along. There's a sort of urgency he'd stress into his words, shoved in between the vowels and consonants that made it seem as if there was some dire event going to happen if I didn't follow.

I didn't bother to worry, though. He's always startled himself into a bit of a fluster when he recalls something. Not that what it was wasn't useful or important, but there wasn't any reason to get all worked up over it. Not for me, at least -- Artie did a fine job of that all by himself. "No, you haven't shown me, but there hasn't been a change of plans, has there?" Of course there hadn't. If there had been, he would've told me, horses or no.

His hand closed over the note pad just as I said that, and he looked down at what he'd written before smiling up at me almost sheepishly. "Everything is on track, James, my boy. This was just the confirmation. We have an hour before we're expected to arrive... and everything is going to go smoothly."

I've told him before that the first sign of confidence he shows when we're on any mission is usually a death kneel for the remainder of the next few weeks. Over the years, some of his most irrational superstitions have rubbed off on me. But at the time, I just nodded to him, and went back to making sure my belt buckle was straight. No cummerbund for me, I wanted people to know I was on duty. Artemus is the one that likes to blend in with the guests and mingle. But I had about as much interest in mingling with a lot of hoity scientists as I did with mingling with a herd of sheep. The senators that were going to be there promised to hold a bit more interest for me; I could talk to them, if it was required of me, and I knew everything I needed to know about them. I could politely smile to one of their trophies of a wife, ask senator so and so about his college bound son, and then flirt a bit with his pretty daughter.

Not a hard, or particularly taxing task. Artie and I could take turns standing *exactly* at the president's side, and whoever wasn't could work the room, looking for anyone suspicious. Working together like that, we were both guaranteed to stay on our toes, and stay awake.

"Good. Put your gloves on, Artie, before you forget them again." I think I smiled then, because he didn't bristle even a little at the slight superiority that crept into my voice. It isn't that I think I'm smarter than him; god and everyone who's ever met him knows that he’s brilliant, and razor sharp with wit. It's just that sometimes he needs some grounding -- and I'm just the person to do it. 

He did bother to shake his head a little, but he also did what I'd told him to do. "James, you are *insufferable*. Absolutely insufferable..." 

"I know, Artie. I'm going to saddle up the horses. You can come along when you're ready." A carriage ride was an option, but I personally disliked the stricture we'd face by not having our own mounts, in case something happened. Comfort versus security, and I can tell you that comfort will lose every single time, if I make the decision.

I didn't expect this assignment to be particularly remarkable. Senators and Scientists -- a little Washington sponsored lobbying. I expected it to be stressful work, sure, but not as dangerous as -- well, I'm getting ahead of myself again. I prefer to jump right to the point, but the point is here and now, and I promised Artie I'd write all of this.

He'll probably laugh when he reads it. But at the time, we weren't laughing much.

I went to the car that the horses were in, and gave each of their manes a good pulling while the Wanderer came to a stop, polished up my tack a little, and put the blanket down on my horse's back, followed by the saddle and the rest. I never did name him, but he was a good horse, and never threw me once. I took as good care of him as he took with me. I didn't bother to polish up the tack Artie used -- he'd already done it, though who knew when. He burned the candle at both ends fairly often when there was an assignment that we had time to prepare for, and he'd be awake when I went to sleep, and awake when I got up, though he'd swear he'd slept. I don't call dozing off and drooling on the arm of the chesterfield sleep, but Artie says that's just semantics.

He joined me within a quarter of an hour, and tossed me a little velvet bag, with an urge to pocket it. Of course, I stared at it, and then started to open it like the fool that I sometimes can be. But he warned me before I could loosen the string.

"Ah, ah -- That's sleeping gas, James. I wouldn't do that quite yet." He laughed at me as he opened the car's doors, and lowered the walk to lead the horses down. That was his almost malicious streak letting itself loose. "Unless you're in for a night of sleeping on your feet."

I shook my head at him, and shoved it into my back pocket, where it laid forgotten until much later that night. But it was still early afternoon then, and the sun's light tried to fight back the chill of the air for us while we got our horses out of the car. Artie quickly put the walk back up, and then closed the doors, blustering and rubbing at his arms the whole time. I take to the cold better than Artie, every winter; farm upbringing will do that for you. But he's a northern boy, a real northern boy, so who knows what his excuse is. Running from heated building to heated building, I don't doubt.

The ride to the Estate of the esteemed host for the night - Senator John Avery, Virginia, now not so sadly deceased - was relaxing, and mostly quiet. We don't usually talk much when we ride, and we'd already said everything that would need saying for many hours to come. Artie and I had a comfortable rapport, and the only thing that could be called conversation was the occasional order to one of our horses, or shared looks concerning the scenery. I knew by then when a flick of his eyes meant to glance left or to the right. It's useful in a tight spot, and convenient when riding side by side.

We finally reached the estate, after an annoying pause at the gates. Artie had a few choice words about the gate guard, who had nothing better to do than stare at us while he took his damn sweet time unlocking the gates. I finally flashed my identification, but Artie was pretty sure it was the carriage coming up behind us that finally got the gates open. I'd like to think that being a government agent on government business would be more than enough to get a snooty gate guard to do his job, but I've occasionally been known to be wrong.

I scanned the grounds, eyeing the various people that strutted out of their carriages. One of the regional agents spotted us, and Artie dismounted to let him take his horse to the stables. I followed suit, and straightened my jacket out as usual once I had dismounted. Artie calls that a nervous gesture, though he doesn't mean one of failing nerves, but he's picked it up from me in recent years, so he doesn't repeat that remark anymore.

"Looks like a fine turn out, Jim." He settled his hands at his waist for a moment, before I nudged him at the elbow to get him to head into the estate. "After all, who'd say no to good food, fine music, and brown-nosing?"

"Not our commander in chief." That made him laugh, and my off the cuff comment must've struck quite a chord in him because he was still chuckling a little when we entered the building.

"That is not for us to protest, James..." His mouth pulled sharply down into a conserved line as we started out business for the afternoon. Artemus' face is damned expressive, but if I hadn't known him for so long, I wouldn't have known that tense, flat expression was anything other than a mask. Acting's a sort of disease, the way I think of it, and it resurfaces at the damndest times. It's also incurable.

Once we were inside, Artie and I split off to canvas the bottom floor. The senator had explicitly closed off the second and third floors, in the general idea of keeping all of those gathered in one place. It was more convenient that way, but it was also more dangerous. I wish it had've been my call. There were only ten regional agents there, not counting Artie and myself, which I didn't think was enough. There were at least 70 guests in attendance, though my later headcount was 96, including the president, us, and the regionals, along with the scientists, senators, and staff. I wasn't the only person who had an exact headcount that night.

Artemus and I regrouped when we found the president. There were 4 of the other agents with him then, severely impairing his way of talking with people (back slapping, hand shaking, and general gregariousness). Once Artie and I were there, they left to cover other parts of the hall. It took four of them to do the work of just the two of us - but I respected them as much as they respect me. Someday, they won't be green, or someday they'll give up and retire. Or die in the line of duty. They won't fail - we work hard to not hire the failing sort.

"Good evening, sir." I fell easily into place at Grant's side, and he seemed to relax immediately. Sometimes it felt like I was always at his side, or at least, had always been at his side. He was a smart man to be so choosey in who he trusted when it came to watching his back; looking back, I think I performed almost the same duties during the war.

"Good to see you here, West - you too, Gordon."

Artie smiled, bowed slightly at the waist in quiet dramatic gesture, and thanked him. I couldn't help but add an assurance to the president of us both keeping him secure that night. It seemed to be a sure thing, at the time.

Retrospectively, I know our steady moods and calm self-assurance were only setting us both up for a nasty surprise. But we took even that with a mostly good natured stride.

I think I've already mentioned that the socializing was the worst part of any events of that type. Any stray word could be a sign of impending danger; a foreign noise can herald an attack. There was one woman there whose raucous laughter is something I can still almost hear. Every time she laughed, it was like having nails hammered straight into my back. Something about that noise, just the way she pitched it, made me internally jump, even if it wasn't visible. 

But Artie basked in the most trivial-seeming activities. When I first started to work with him, I thought his placidness at events was a sign of weakness. He never jumped at laughter, drank while on duty, and didn't wear his gun visibly. Still doesn't. And that night, he was at his socializing peak. Out there, mingling with the scientists, cataloging their names, gestures, what they thought of this person or that. When we went back to the wanderer, I imagined he'd spend hours writing all of that down so Washington could add it to the growing archive of information. A still fledging nation knows to not waste any chances to garner information.

After an hour of that, and a small glass of wine, I admit that my guard slipped. There was one woman there who kept catching my eyes, and smiling at me. Pretty brown curls, and water-clear green eyes, a soft face. But when Artie and I traded off, and I went to mingle - mostly with the senators - I couldn't find the woman for the life of me. The room was large, but not so large that I could lose a face like that in the crowd. There was every possibility that she'd gone to powder her nose, so I forgot about her and let knowledge of her presence fall to the back of my mind.

Boredom had seeped in, after two hours of smiling and nodding, and a little more drinking and no more faces that were worth remarking on. I watched Artie pluck a glass of wine from a circling waiter's tray, flashing him a frown and four fingers - he flashed 3 fingers back, and a rueful grin, before plucking up another glass. I watched him hand that to the president. Artie could hold his liquor, but we were on duty, comfortable atmosphere or not. If that was his third, all right; I didn't want him having a forth.

I had been walking back to him to trade off again when a loud shatter and crash broke into the room. My first instinct was to protect the president, and so was Artie's. I imagine that Grant wasn't terribly surprised when his two best agents tackled him to the ground. We worked on instinct then -- I kept the president down for a moment more, then pulled him upright when there were no more noises than the panic of the guests. They were scattering to other rooms on the first floor, which honestly made my job easier. Three of the regionals leapt for the window, but saw no traces of whoever had thrown the brick. Artie immediately went to see if he could cut whoever it had been off at the gates, while myself and two regionals herded the president into a room that we had previously checked and labeled as a secure place.

That left me to wading through shit-scared senators and geniuses, to pick up a harmless brick with a childishly penned note wrapped around it. I paced towards the broken window with it in hand, then walked to a spot that I couldn't be shot at from, if there happened to be anyone lingering outside.

The note itself was more chilling than the writer's style-less script. The words were short, written by a layman who'd obviously been taking dictation for a more brilliant mind. A terse demand for the notes of the deceased Miguelito Loveless, in exchange for the antidote to the poison that had been put in all of the wine bottles. I made sure to read it over once, twice more, but my mind flew in circles -- get someone to find the distributor who'd sold the wine for the event, lock the place down tighter than the treasury mint, get one of the lab boys to see if they could whip something together to delay the poison's effects -- never once did I doubt that it was poisoned. False alarmists never go to so much trouble to not be caught.

There was a familiar feel to the missive, which was doubled by the perpetrator's use of a layman's hand to write it. I would've obviously recognized the hand-writing, which was why it had to be masked. Old enemies with grudges were the most dangerous; caution would be required in the coming hours.

And the last thing that crossed my mind was that I'd have to get the notes whether I wanted to or not. There was a delicately drawn map of the rendezvous point, half a day's ride away, and an urging of the immediacy of the situation. Half a day's ride either way, no rail lines near to the point to speed travel, and multiple mentions of the poison being irreversible after thirty six hours. Just the sort of quick thinking, innovative person you *didn't* want to have get their hands on Loveless' notes, but the perpetrator had assured that there wasn't enough time to make a forged copy. And assuming the man were familiar enough with Loveless' work to know that his notes were held by the government, then he was also familiar enough to notice a slightly falsified forgery.

My mind leapt into thoughts of how to recover the documents before we'd even handed them over; I barked orders at the regionals, and they listened to me. Things blurred together, words I said, motions I made. My head cleared by the time that Artemus and I regrouped to inform the president what was going on. A bottle of the tainted wine, half-poured, was taken to the lab boys on Artemus' insistence, while Artemus went by himself to get the notes. Reinforcements arrived, police and our own boys, and it was decided by the area supervisor to bring in doctors and keep the attendees contained until an antidote could be made, or found. What had happened would make a media sensation, if the people there left the estate. Artemus would return to the Wanderer, get a few supplies, and I would ride to meet him once a few last things were decided. Things such as how we were going to deliver the notes. If both of us were harmed or somehow delayed, the consequences to the state of the union would be dire; the president, and the most important of our national delegates and scientific minds would die.

Along with myself, and Artemus. That barely registered in my mind, though -- it would be a failure, after all, if *we* were to live, and Grant were to die. The general turned president was the embodiment of the American spirit, and I could see his own mortality intensified in the threat of thirty six hours.

Artie had his supplies ready by the time I reached the Wanderer. He was tired of riding; I could see it in his eyes and his walk, when we met in the light of the lamplight at the back of the Wanderer.

"You ready to go, Artie?" He swung up into his saddle without hesitation, and I couldn't help but tug at his horse's mane a little as the beast pranced in agitation. It'd never liked riding at night, and now it was headed into unfamiliar territory with only a lantern to guide it. And at the best speed Artie could coax from it. I was tempted to give it a sugar cube, but there was every possibility that Artemus already had beaten me to it.

Artemus snorted at my question, then gestured to the leather document case he had in front of him on his saddle, with the shot-gun he had tucked under his arm. So many lives were reliant on those pieces of paper that a mad-man had scribbled on. I had the irrational urge to set them on fire; it was too much of a risk for our government to have them any longer. "You ask me that as if I have a choice, Jim." There wasn't any of his usual humor, light, droll, dry or otherwise, in his voice when he said that. And as I stroked the horse's mane a moment more, he went on, "You're going to shadow me all the way, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. I'll follow your light..." I tapped the lantern that he'd wedged up against the side of the saddle. It looked like one of his devices, far enough from his animal's flank to keep it from singing hair, and lifted high to cast light out as far as possible. "Just don't let it blow out."

He didn't let it blow out. I mounted up, and noted that the tack on my horse was the quietest, most broken in that I had, and set after Artemus once he started to ride the route. He led, and I followed in the shadows, present but unidentifiable to anyone but him. The plan had a raw feeling that I didn't like much. On missions, lots of unexpected events came up, but we usually had some idea of the sort of thing to expect. Or, failing that, we had such a short period of time to get it done in that there was no time for us to realize that we *had* no plan. There was a simple energy rush that buoyed us from one step of the mission to the next to the next. 

There was a twelve hour ride between step a and step b, and I can tell you that I was tired of riding by about the ten hour point. Dawn was rising, streaks of light coming up at the horizon that we were riding away from. It wasn't high enough to warm my back yet, no matter how much I willed it to rise high in the sky; and my hands felt frozen into their clutch around the reigns. I wasn't sure how much of that was real from the chill of winter, and how much of that was from the poison.

My legs had started to cramp up an hour before. Tiny little spasms, and I almost hopelessly wished for Artie's glass vials so that their noise could take my attention from the vague ache in my legs. The metallic taste that started to set in was more ominous; I tried to wash it away with a few deep swigs from my canteen.

We were almost to the rendezvous point, with Artie still leading the way and myself and my horse still trying to keep out of sight, when I felt the pulse of a fever set in. I could tell you the names of a hundred men I've known over the years, who've died of influenza. That was just what I assumed it felt like, except for that odd metallic taste. I drank a little more water from my canteen, then hunched my shoulders to the sun's rise, and bent my will as pointedly as I could to riding onwards. There was just a ride back left to finish, I kept telling myself. I don't know what Artie told himself, but we probably had a shared thought when a 'Whoop' echoed in the narrow valley that we'd ridden towards.

It seemed like a horde, but in it was only 15 horseback men. It was still too many for Artie to fend off, and the struggle wasn't even one that took much time. I must've blinked once, maybe twice, trying to clear the haze of the poison from my mind, and then they were riding off to the north, Artie and his horse lost somewhere amongst them. Like a fool, I started after them -- shadowing the horde. It had been an expected outcome, but one left unspoken between Artemus and I. Whoever it was probably would want *me* to bring the notes; with Artie being the person meeting for the trade, we figured there was a higher chance of him getting out with the antidote without much struggle. 

Now, as I rode behind that group and their fresh horses, lagging little by little, I realized that it was going to be every bit the struggle as if I had've been the one with the notes. Three glasses of that poisoned wine, against one glass of it; a fact that suddenly re-entered my mind, as I swallowed again to try to get rid of the metal taste. I'd only had one glass, the president had maybe had two, and Artie...

My horse and I whipped around a corner that I'd seen the group ride around, and I had to jerk back on the reigns when we almost slammed into a sheer rock face. They couldn't've just disappeared into thin air, so I immediately started to see where they could have gone. Not up the wall, because the horses would've had to go somewhere.

I jumped down from my mount, and let him wander to graze and rest while I walked close to inspect how solid that wall really was. I must have paced in front of that damned wall for an hour. I touched every inch of it with my hands, stomped on the ground in front of it, all to no avail. The spasms in my muscles grew stronger, and I found myself leaning against the rock wall in desperation; but my body's weight refused to budge it, either. 

Dying. I was dying, and thwarted by smooth smooth stone. 

How the wall finally opened up was pure luck, working for us for what felt like the first time in weeks. My horse happened to pace over to me, just as I started to sag helplessly against it. He was looking for a sugar cube from Artie, because he nudged at my hip and I don't have pockets there on my pants. But in the process of begging for a treat, he stomped his hooves down. The echo was surprisingly loud, as close to the wall as it was. I heard a groaning creak, and then the spot I was resting my arm against gave a jerk. I staggered backwards, using my horse’s saddle to pull myself upright, while I watched a large gape reveal itself in the wall.

Before me was a yawning black cavern, and Artie had the lantern. Well, I'm not a man easily frightened; years ago, I faced down any fears I had of the dark, consciously reminding myself that what's there in the dark is there in the daylight, only it can't see you, either. With one hand on the wall, and the other clutching at my cramping stomach, I started forwards into the darkness. It was a smooth slope downwards, gently curving left. It wasn't a sharp enough curve to make me feel more disoriented than I already was. My legs went out with a wave of nausea and cramping, and I felt dirt -- not the stone that I expected -- scrape against my cheek. So the stone was a facade.

I can't remember how long I knelt there while I tried to catch a second wind; but after a few minutes, I realized there was a dull glow ahead of me that my eyes had focused on. It took a few tries, but I stood and started towards it unsteadily. Once I had Artie and the antidote, we'd ride back, distribute it to the president and the rest, then take our own doses. The president first. If there was an antidote.   The light led me to a grotto, where the riders I’d seen take Artie away were gathered around a fire. I could hear those bastards laughing, playing cards, relaxing. No guilt in them, then, or were they unaware of what they’d done? It amounted to the same thing.  There was no way I could take the group of them, no way that even I could manage that, in the shape I was in. Beyond them was one door, the door that I assumed I wanted to go through. That door was either a trap, or to salvation, and I wasn’t going to risk missing a chance at my salvation. My nation’s salvation. But the question remained how I was going to distract them.   

Eight. Not a hundred, or fifteen, but eight men. The other seven must’ve moved on, and maybe they’d taken Artemus with them.  Instinct kicked in again, making me stand up. Nothing was getting accomplished by kneeling in the dirt; if they had taken him, or the antidote, ahead, then I didn’t have time to waste. There had to be something in my boots… Of course, the solution struck me like a fist. Artie had tossed me that pouch the afternoon before, and I’d obediently stuck it in my back pocket. It was either sleeping powder, or a gas triggering device; he didn’t exactly tell me, so I just had to take a chance with opening it and tossing it.   As soon as I loosened the strings, it started to smoke. I chucked it with all of my strength at their fire. Now, I hadn’t intended for it to go into the fire proper, but it worked to my advantage. The flare of smoke and flame, combined with the gas itself, threw them into a panic that I avoided by bringing my jacket up to my mouth and nose. They were soon unconscious. Once they’d all fallen, I rushed forwards on shaking legs, still covering my mouth (I knew firsthand how fast Artie’s tricks could work, and how they could linger in the air), and tried the door. I don’t know why I even bothered trying it; the damn thing, despite being my first instinct, never works. I was too shaky just then to pick the lock, and it was too risky to blow it open. So I ended up opening it with my trusty shoulder. One more ache to soon be forgotten by other matters. The lock gave, and the door slammed open as I drew my gun.

“Good bye, Mr. West!” That voice was too familiar, and I looked down, and to the left to see Loveless diving for a hole in the wall – and before I could grab for him, or even move away from the door, he was gone and the hole was closed. My eyes swung over the rest of the room, landing on a small cage that had Artemus cramped into it.  Either he’d been roughed up by the riders, or the poison was getting to him more than it was getting to me. His sleeve had been shredded, and I couldn’t see his jacket anywhere in the room. 

“You look like hell, Artie.”   

“I feel like hell.” He started to say more, but tightly closed his mouth as he leaned forwards against the bars. “Are you going to get me out of here, Jim, or are you going to gape all day? We have to get going…” 

I watched him pat the leather satchel that had previously held notes. When he touched it, I heard a glassy noise. Never before had the clink clink of vials been such a sweet, sweet sound.  “Did he actually give you that?” I started to glance around for a key, or maybe a switch to trigger the door open. If all else failed, I had lock-picks and explosives.   

“I’m honestly surprised he did, Jim…” Artie trailed off disconcertingly, but I glanced over to him and saw that he was slipping an arm through the bars to fidget at the lock himself. “Give me your picks, James – I can open it faster.” 

It took me a minute to pull them out of my jacket’s collar, but I tossed them to him.  I was still looking for a key and fighting back an urge to retch when Artie picked the lock and staggered out. I had the fleeting worry that he was going to fall on the case, and pulled him better upright, an arm over my shoulder.   “Where’s your horse?” 

I could feel him shaking, worse than I was, when he leaned on me for support.  “Probably an hour or so ahead of us.” He grimaced at the thought, before he took a step forwards. Leaving, yes, we had to leave quickly. “With Loveless’ notes. Jim, we’ve got to forget about that and get back to Washington…” 

  We started to walk like that, back to the grotto, where I expected loveless’ henchmen to either still be unconscious, or laying in wait. But they were gone. I had the sudden rational fear that my horse was as far gone as Artie’s. There was nothing to do but keep walking, though. “Fine. You’ll ride with me, and we’ll both take a dose—“   

“I just don’t think there’s enough for everyone.” He glanced at me sideways just before we started to wind up the dark sloping tunnel. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he didn’t just think there wasn’t enough for everyone; the worried, glassy look in his eyes told me he knew that there wasn’t. I fell silent, concentrating on walking instead of on what his words meant. Artie felt clammy at my side, and the arm over my shoulder felt like a burning log. Too warm, and too much dead weight. The shaking was disconcerting, since I felt at the verge of it myself. 

  And that clink clink of the vials wasn’t so comforting any longer.  The sun was high enough to make the last part of the tunnel navigable by means other than my hand on the wall. And it showed me a glorious sight – my horse, head down as it picked shoots of grass out of the frost. My tack looked like it was still there, too. Artie muttered something, but I honestly wasn’t paying him much attention, other than making sure he was still with me. I started towards my horse in a lurch, and he hung back by the simple act of digging in the heels of his boots.  

“Artie, come on…” I wondered if his legs were going out on him; if they were, I had little idea how we were going to get back to Washington.   

"Go on, Jim. Just go on… You can get there faster without me, and if something happens to President Grant-“   

”Don’t be crazy, Artie.” I cut him off sharply. It was impossible to concentrate on petty things like that; I gave him a bodily jerk, and snapped, “You’re no hero. Now just hold on a second.”  

 I leaned him up against my horse, trusting him to use it to keep to his feet. Now, I retrospectively know that I sounded like an ass. I probably still do, but I say what I think and don’t bother to make heads or tails of it; and I’m not usually wrong. Usually. It took me a minute to gather my head, but I did work out how we were going to get back with just one horse. I had to take the saddle, and blanket off of my horse, and leave it behind. But there was a smug feeling settling in my chest as I realized that Loveless wouldn’t have my saddle, either. It’d lay there and rot all winter. The saddle bags, full of water, food and other things I didn’t doubt we’d need, ended up coming with us.   

Artie had to sit high on the withers, and I moved up behind him and grabbed the reins once I had my arms around him. Bareback riding was never a favorite activity of mine, but it wasn’t a matter of choice just then. I couldn’t leave Artemus there; didn’t give a damn how many of the enemy I’ve left behind, but I wasn’t going to leave a loyal friend and partner to die there. He’d done a lot of stupid, risky things over the years to rescue me, things that one just didn’t expect from anyone who’d ever been an officer in the war. We were all trained to move on to the higher goal, damning the losses. Grant himself mastered it.

We started out almost right away, and since Artemus seemed so unresponsive there wasn’t much sense in warning him. It was impossible to tell if it was anger keeping him silent, or illness, but it amounted to the same thing – a cold, desperate ride in silence. He kept his fingers wrapped around the straps of the case the antidote was in, and ever so slowly started to sag back against me to keep warm. Loveless took Artemus’s jacket just to spite him, and I hadn’t helped by not thinking clearly. My horse’s blanket, miles behind us by the time I realized it, would’ve worked fine.

“When we get back to the Wanderer, James, we’ll have good food, warm beds, and…” He sighed, and ducked his head down for a moment. To take a canteen and some food from the saddlebags. Despite the sun being up, we were both dead tired and chilled to the bone; I didn’t think I could eat, but if Artie thought he could, I was going to try, too. Throwing up had to be better than a mouth that tasted like I was chewing blood, or bullets. “Think we’ll make it there?”  He handed me some bread with a hand that was shaking like a leaf in a gale, and bent in again, trying to keep warm. His back against my chest was certainly helping to keep *me* warm. And a few hours later, when the snow started to fall again, it was probably the only bearable sensation I had. We talked a little, but I realized he was slowly becoming disoriented, and feverish. Gone from clammy to too damn hot in too short a time. I was worried that he’d die before we got there – but the cavalry saved the day, so to speak. There was maybe an hour or two left, with the sun already set, when we saw regional officers. I’d never been so happy in my life to know that Washington thought we’d failed.

I identified us to them, stopped my exhausted horse, and shakily slid down from its back. The insides of my thighs screamed at me, damp from my horse’s sweat and sore from trying to hold on. Everything was cramping, something I’d been able to ignore before by virtue of having sat mostly still for such a long time. Now I felt like I was going to throw up; it stifled any attempts to make requests of the regionals for a few moments. But when I could stand again, I knew what my course of action was going to be. For a minute there, I was going to ask for their horses; but I had every doubt that Artemus wouldn’t be able to stay on top of a horse by himself. 

“Give me your horse.” The man nearest to me damn well knew to not challenge me on that order, and dismounted quickly. As bad as my body hurt, it was good to be in a proper saddle again. “Make sure Agent Gordon gets to the estate quickly.” Then I paced the bay over to Artie and my horse, and he handed me the case the vials were resting in. “Thanks, Artie. I’ll see you there.”

“Good luck, Jim.”

That ‘good luck, James’ echoed in my head as I pulled away from them, and goaded that horse to the fastest speed it could manage. I felt a twinge of guilt as I pulled away, just for a second; I’ve never regretted that my service to my country is all encompassing, didn’t then and I don’t regret it now. But it gave me a lot to chew on during my ride back; a lot of things I don’t normally think on for too long. But rides are for thoughts, and it’s hard to not think when you’re monotonously steering an animal that senses it’s going back home.  I think the horse rode a little faster for knowing it was going back to familiar territory, or at least, I like to think that it was aware of the temerity of the situation. A wild hope, that horses can realize how serious something is. Then again, we would’ve been back to Washington already if my horse could’ve sensed that. But exhaustion took it over and I knew Artie was miles behind me with the regionals.   So I pushed back the rising nausea again, and bent into my new horse’s neck. We weren’t in the clear yet; I started to mentally run through my priorities; President Grant came at the very top of my list, and then the senators. It wasn’t that the scientists weren’t important, it’s just how priorities fell for me. And the agents last, but Artie was damn well at the top of that list. And if there wasn’t enough, then I wouldn’t take it. The thought didn’t particularly frighten or stun me. I was accustomed to it, have been for years. At the time, there was a rational for having Artie get the antidote first. That he was an important mind, with hard to replace traits and skills, and that he… well, time and other things have muddled it for me, so I’m not going to try to reproduce it. It came down to him being my friend, and my being willing to sacrifice for him. That’s what it came down to, no matter how I rationalized it through.

When my horse raced through the gates – that snooty bastard damn well opened the gates before I was even near them, this time – I finally started to feel a sense of victory. The president wasn’t going to die. I didn’t think that the antidotes would be fakes; with his notes in his possession again, Loveless could pull a far more spectacular coup against the Government. A dead president was worth less than a live, captured one, after all.  The fact that he might have been captured in my absence was what carried me off of my horse, and made me jog into the estate with the case of vials clutched close to my chest. I must’ve been more delirious with fever than I thought, because I just plain didn’t notice the regionals that flanked me. I think I snarled at one of them to back off, and then at another to tell me where the president was. Same room he’d been taken to when the brick had been thrown.  ”West, you—“  ”I’ve brought it, sir.” I set the case on the desk top, and pulled out a single vial. More lives than I cared to think of were piled on top of each other in that case, and more were at risk because of the notes that Loveless now had.   I watched the president drink his down, wince at the disgusting taste, and then seem to flush with life. “West, let me congratulate you for a job well done.”

It wasn't a job well done, though. It wouldn't be a job well done until everyone was cured. "Sir, we have a limited number of doses, and no time to work out what the most effective minimum is."

Grant's face made an expression of almost resignation; I had seen that look before, tension and consideration, working out that the grim decision that came next would fall heavily on his shoulders. If I let it. "Of course. He would only honor giving us a true antidote by giving us an impossible choice. Dammit, I wish I hadn't drunk my dose down."

"Didn't want to give you that choice, sir." I almost mustered a smile when I said it, but I needed to keep my focus on distribution of the antidote.

"I won't forget that." Grant looked at one of the regionals. "Organize the guests. I want a specific headcount immediately," he ordered. "How many vials are there, West?"

"95, sir."

There was a pause and the regional came back in at the double. “There are 93 guests sir plus yourself and Major West." Loveless was calculating, and he knew the kinds of decisions I would make, that Artie would make. He'd played games with our minds before, but having handed over the vials, I felt almost a sense of peace, knowing the decision was not mine to make. For a moment.

"That's... that's not one each is it?" Grant looked at me quizzically, his color much improved. It was remarkable how quickly the symptoms had fallen away. Perhaps... perhaps I had too little to drink for it to be deadly? No. Loveless would not risk missing anyone, even if they had a token drink.

I shouldn't have made that mistake. "And Artemus makes 96. The cavalry were bringing him back here."

"He didn't make it with you?" There was a pause and a murmuring of motion with the regionals that I followed, watching from the corner of my eye as Grant shook his head "Distribute the vials to our female guests. That decision at least is easy. We might have to consider a more equitable means of determining our fate for those remaining." Drawing straws to see who should live and who should die. It was hard to imagine, and Artie still wasn't here. 

"No, he was too ill. If your men are going to handle the distribution..." I was going back to see what had become of our rescue team.

"He was affected more than you?" Grant asked me, and I had a horrible feeling I could see where the logic was going. "If he isn't going to survive..." With three doses in his system? I didn't know. Logic told me that maybe one vial of antidote would not be enough for that amount.

It didn't matter. Surely there had been other heavier drinkers, but Artemus seemed to have been particularly effected. I wasn't sure, but I had to go find him and make sure he got back to the estate so we could decide who got the dose, whether it would work at all. "Sir, if I may, I'll see myself out."

"James..." He took out a vial and handed it to me. "You deserve this more than most. I will wait until we are as close as we can be to the deadline but...”

"Please distribute it to the rest of the guests, sir." Artie and I would figure something out, I knew we would. Document the antidote for future use -- I could half imagine Artemus' disappointment that a party full of scientists and no one was working on what had happened or how to stop it from happening again. For the continued security of the United States, it needed to be analyzed. I didn't wait for a response but knew Grant would do just that. He was a pragmatist, which had made him a successful President, but he would prefer to ask for volunteers for certain death than enforce a death sentence. What man wouldn't? All that was irrelevant; I needed to find Artie, and quickly. I didn't dwell on the unspoken volunteering state between myself and Artie, rushing through the hallway while I tucked my vial into my pocket. I was back to where I'd left my borrowed horse, and desperately concerned that something had happened.

With disbelief that I had barely cleared the town when I came across the regionals who I had left with Artie, charged them to bring him to the estate notably without my partner. Or my horse. An icy sensation stabbed through the fever heat off my body. Was it too late? "Where is he?" They wouldn't have just left his body somewhere like a common criminal, would they?

"Sir, he took your horse and ordered us to go on. Said there was nothing that could be done," one of them said, having the grace to avoid my gaze. "He said to say...it was an honor and a privilege."

"Which way did he go?" Began to advance past them; it wasn't the first time Artie had taken a fool headed turn.

"I don't think he was actually steering where he was going sir," one of the others said. "The horse seemed to know where to go." Home. I didn't bid them a farewell, or say anything more, and instead started off in a gallop toward the Wanderer. It didn't matter that I ached everywhere, and I was sweating, struggling to focus. If I felt unwell, Artie felt worse. How he had even ridden I did not know. Perhaps it was more a case of holding on and hoping for the best. I had to be in time, there was no option.

I knew what I was going to do with my antidote, knew what I was going to do with it before the president had placed it in my hands. It was just a matter of whether Artie was going to cooperate or not. I trusted my horse, though, to find the Wanderer and to treat Artie well.

It was just as well, because even now the fever heat was starting to give way to chills and shivering, even though I knew my body was fever hot. If I was this bad on one dose would the antidote be enough? I didn't want to think about that. It seemed to have been enough for the president, and I know he had at least one maybe two glasses of wine. I held onto that hope as I rode, and did not dwell too much on my concerns of dying.

It was an endless ride back to the Wanderer, and I could understand why Artie had come back here. If it was to be the end, there was nowhere else I would rather be. I could see a horse loose and nervous in the light from the windows and slipped from my own horse to find my legs were about to give out on me. Artie had at least gotten inside, lit a lamp or two, and hopefully was still alive. Every muscle in my legs screamed at me as I staggered forward, and I clung to the hand rail of the stairs like I never had, even when it was moving. The silence inside was nigh on absolute and disturbing. I made my way towards Artie's carriage instinctively, swaying as if I was drunk. All I could see when I first opened the door was his laboratory, his 'great works of science out on the table and no sign of him until I lurched forward and saw Artie sprawled on the floor, un-moving.

I didn't overthink it, which Artie would have laughed at if I'd suggested I was trying. I worked on gut instinct, and honed intellect, and Artie was important. Artie was so smart, so smart, and he was already ahead of me, but I didn't know it when I knelt by his body and fumbled to open the vial. I just wanted to save him, my longest friend. It was as simple as that, the same instinct that made me think getting in the way of bullets constituted a well thought out plan. I put it to his lips that seemed disturbingly still when not animated by Artie's smile, or flow of words, and forced the contents into his mouth with the last of the strength I possessed.

It was like someone cut my strings then, my motive force gone with the accomplishment of that simple task. It was easier to lay out on the floor and know that I couldn't have lived if I'd let my partner die there. Even if there was reason for it, a logical good rational reason to have not done it. I slid my hand over, pulling at his vest, looking for his heartbeat. There was no guarantee. Artie had drunk a lot but...there. There, the feel of a heart beat stronger than the pounding in my own ears. Faint at first, then growing stronger, stronger... It was a dizzying sense of relief that swept over me.

I pressed my fingers down, firmly, waiting, knowing that it was good, that I had done the right thing, the best thing, and could rest at last. I didn't want to die, but as Artie often said, I wasn't the thinker of the partnership. I was the one with the dumb luck, the blind faith in rushing in where angels fear to tread. No rushing any more. Everything hurt.

There was a mumbling groan from next to me, and movement under my hand, which was too heavy to lift and removed from Artie's chest.

"Artie." I only wanted to see him sit up, to be sure he was well. That the turnaround would be complete that there was enough of the cure to keep working.

"James?" he moved then. "No James, what have you done?" His tone sounded panicked, and Artie rarely genuinely sounded that way. He thought too quickly for panic to take hold. I became aware he was practically clutching at me.

My mouth was thick, and talking was getting hard after so much hard riding. "Last dose." Enough that Artie would understand everything and the implications behind it.

"You idiot." It was so familiar I nearly smiled. "You self-sacrificing idiot." He sounded shaky but that was easy to understand. He'd been at deaths door. Apparently he was heaving me over to the couch unsteadily. I didn't expect him to have that strength, but it didn't surprise me, at the same time, that he did, because he was Artie. Artie always had a well to draw from when things were at their worst, a deep pool to draw.

"How long have we got?" I wasn't sure if that was a question to me or himself but I was on that couch and I heard the thump of him staggering away.

How long? Oh, how long, less time than I wanted and I struggled for a moment to remember where we were on the deadline to my doom. "Not long."

"Half way," I heard him mutter under his breath but my vision blurred as I tried to look at him. It was best then, to rest. Artie seemed to have a plan, which he always did, and no amount of energy spent would help him achieve it faster.

"I should have known you'd pull a damn fool stunt like this Jim," Arties voice was saying, as I drifted feeling delirious. "You shouldn't have...mind you, I didn't have enough time to do it for myself but if you hold on..."

"Artie. I'm waiting." Or at least I tried to say that, half exasperated by his usual talking to himself and over animated prattle.

"Yes well you don't even know what you are waiting for Jim," Artie said and he could hear clinking and the chemical smells of Artie puttering with some experiment. "Keep talking Jim."

"You to work your science." Like magic, except Artie scoffed at that stuff where I, sometimes, had to wonder.

"Science, unfortunately does not like to be rushed," he said sounding stronger by the moment.

"Take your time. Just resting." I almost laughed, but there was a frantic ness to his voice.

"You couldn't have known I was working on a cure," Artie said. I could imagine the frown of concentration. 

"Did not know," I agreed and added, "just figured."

"I didn't think I was that predictable," he answered. I drifted a little, a rushing sound growing in my ears as my eyes closed even without me knowing.

"Jim?... Jim!"

I sucked in a startled breath, too weak to jolt awake, but that was the motion behind it as I tried to surface again, struggling to breath. "Just a little longer," Artie sounded shaken. "Breathe you stubborn idiot, I've just got to decant this...” There were hands pulling at me, moving me somehow and I could barely feel it. Fear jolted through me, giving me a shot of strength.

Fear was powerful, fear would keep me alive. I sucked in another gasp, and another, fighting and maybe wasting energy in the fighting but it was better than quietly succumbing to my death. "That's it, that's it, drink..." Artie's voice was a lifeline and the liquid he forced down my throat was bitter enough to pierce even the numbed state of my senses. Swallowing was difficult but I didn't choke. "Keep breathing Jim, keep breathing. I'll never forgive you if you die now. Please Jim...”

I had no ready quip on my tongue, as I swallowed, and swallowed empty mouth, the taste still clinging, as cloying as the original poison had been undetectable. It was a strange sensation, a tingling that began in my fingers and toes as if they had gone numb with cold and were now coming back to life. They started to almost burn as it crawled up my arms, my body like a fast shouldering fire. I wanted to fight that immense sharp pain, too, but I knew it was something I needed, healing, and a cure, because I trusted Artie to pull another miracle off. He had a good line in it and as the burning sensation reached my chest, it was as if something constricting my lungs snapped and I took a deep breath feeling energy pour into my body again. A few more and I had strength to open my eyes, focusing on the worried expression of my partner who was holding me in his arms.

"You did it." And everything had worked out, just as I'd hoped, just as I'd known it would because there hadn't been any other way it would have ended with us both alive.

"You are still an idiot," he said, and I could now feel how tight he was holding me. "Why did you do it? It was a foolish risk Jim."

"The poisoner isn't, won't be done, and we're going to need more than rations of cure." It was public safety, but then I couldn't have let Artie laid there and drank it for myself. 

He offered me a more regular drink of some kind. "You'll be dehydrated after the fever," he said evading a direct response to my answer. His fingers brushed aware hair on my forehead almost absently. "I'll never say you look good in blue again."

"Clashed with the suit," I countered, breathing hard and shifting, pressing my shoulders against his lap, I decided, quite impulsively, that I enjoyed how that felt and wanted to stay there forever.

"On the other hand, if I ever needed to make you up as a corpse for one of my patented madcap ideas, I now have an indelible image burned into my mind," Artie replied. He showed no signs of pushing me away. If anything I thought his grip seemed tighter.

I was content to lay there and merely breath, letting the shifting of the pain flow over my senses. "Everyone back at the compound are safe."

"I probably should have asked about them immediately," Artie said. "Frankly, it went out of my thoughts. I was preoccupied. You were lucky I had half prepared the cure and that my captor was the gloating type."

"Lots of secrets spilled?" That was good, that was the best, and it meant there was more Artie would tell me when the world stopped spinning. I was already feeling stronger, but reluctant to move.

"Loveless enjoys grandstanding," Artie said in a steady voice. "I should send him a thank you note for saving your life. He gave me enough clues to deduce what he had used. I could have been wrong." His fingers were still stroking my hair absently. I had to wonder if he even realized if he was doing it.

"He was enjoying listening to someone respond to his genius." It was a trick I'd used against Artie a time or two, but never to our detriment.

"Yes well, it was still a risk. He could have been lying or I could have guessed wrong," Artie said. "How are you feeling now?"

"Like I could stand up and not pass out." I drawled it, mouth pulling in what I knew were smug lines. Artie had saved me, saved who knew how many more when the poison came again.

"Don't be fooled by that Jim. Your legs aren't as optimistic as the rest of your body I can assure you. No one is in immediate danger." Anyone would think he didn't want me to move anywhere. And I did not. I can acknowledge that now, with the comfort of years of distance and reflection, but at the time it was a newly acknowledged feeling and one we don't discuss much. Not much else to write on that, and some things are to be kept to oneself.  It wasn't our last adventure, and I think I'll pen a few more down. Loveless is finally dead and buried, though it took a couple of times to get there. That's our now, where Loveless is dead and we've suffered and served our nation proudly. And Artie, Artie with all of his quirks and habits, is the best thing that had ever happened to me. Together, we've saved the country more times than I can count. Plenty of stories about that to pen down. These things are hard to end, and Artie, you'll tidy this up after you read this, won't you?


End file.
